Nightengale Syndrome
by whispers of willows
Summary: After relying on her for five years, the tables have finally turned. Now Natalie, after being injured in an accident, is depending on Monk to help her remember who she is...and Monk isn't so sure he wants her to remember him at all. Monk/Natalie. AU.
1. Prologue: The Accident

Every few moments, he'd twitch. His hand, his leg, maybe an involuntary pluck of his finger, which he'd lift self-consciously and smooth back an unruly black hair or his perfectly groomed brow. Anyone who was familiar with him knew it was his way of communicating his frayed nerves. It was mounting hysteria, slowly unwinding composure, like a coil, apprehending an unexpected spring at any moment.

But there was no one there. Not a wisp of human traces. The furniture was quiet in their neglected state, unruffled, undisturbed by careless hands. He had smoothed out the wrinkles while he'd been waiting, even progressing so far in his unhinged state by taking out the packet of wipes Natalie had left for him, just in case, and swabbed down every last inch of the living room. At first, it'd only been the chairs. The leather had looked like a health hazard to his keen eye, which would have gone unseen by any other relatively sane person, but not to him. The question of his sanity had been asked many times. Some wondered if it was just a matter of time before it was answered. But he was beginning to wonder if there was ever going to be an answer.

With the furniture now glistening perfectly, and not a speck of filth to be observed by his unconventionally sharpened senses, he merely sat there, flinching, glancing uneasily at the phone on the burnished coffee table. He didn't dare to touch it, in fear of smudging the glass, but he reasoned with himself, knowing he could at least look at it. It was motionless, stuck in its mechanical repose. He hoped it would be suddenly startled out of its paralysis.

He was waiting for the Captain to call. Perhaps for anything, really, a sign that pointed due north, the rain to fall, Christmas to come. Anything to remind him that the world was still tilting, correctly, on its axis. He would have liked it much better, if it rotated straight up and down, but he could live with it. As long as he didn't have to see it off kilter, and as long as he always thought about a year in terms of three hundred and sixty five days. Fifty two weeks was hardly an even number. It made him shudder just to ruminate over such a fact. Why did everything always have to be uneven?

His hand twitched again, and he gave himself a little shake, just to realign his own axis. It was beginning to droop. He reached up to his neck and readjusted the shirt collar, as if it were wrinkled or off center. It wasn't, but he tried to forget the thought. It was only because he was worried. Everything always seemed out of place when he was worried. It was his way of setting straight what was crooked when he had no control over truly fixing it.

It was Natalie. Last month, she'd been hurt. Hurt in a way that Monk had finally decided she couldn't be healed, at least not now, perhaps not ever. That light was always broken. He remembered, a while ago, when both he and Natalie had been waiting for the 'Don't Walk' sign to change, so that they could cross the street and retrieve their checks for that week. He remembered almost everything, at least the things that bothered him. A missing button, a scratch on the window, a stain on his freshly starched shirt. All were culprits in the incessant endeavors to drive Adrian Monk out of his mind. He reckoned he was already out of his mind. But they pushed him further out of that little safe place of order and arrangement that he liked to think was his own perfectly balanced world.

But Natalie had been driving, in a car. The same way Trudy…His mind veered away from that thought quickly, as quickly as if he'd been walking and encountered an unforeseen crack in the sidewalk or something equally insalubrious, something he couldn't quite bring himself to think about without feeling the bile rise in his throat. He had the nagging urge to brush his teeth. So many germs in the human stomach…it just wasn't healthy.

His mind returned to the incident, the one that he was sure he'd finally figured it out. It was always doing that…deducing every little detail. It was what he was good at. It was his last normalcy, something he could control. The entire world could be submersed in bedlam, a chaotic prison where dirt and disorder and every other undesirable existed, and Monk would still be able to exist as long as he knew there was a case to solve and an answer to construe.

This one had been rather vague, like looking out of a rain-soaked window, and all the outside world was immersed in a blurred dream world. Natalie had been quite different lately. Almost as if she were unsure, careful, walking across thin ice knowing that, at any moment, it could break and she'd fall into the icy, comatose reality below. She should have known he'd notice, with Monk being….Monk. That was who he is. His entire life was built on the foundation of construing the misconstrued, filtering through the jumbled layers of clues until he could find exactly what was supposed to be found in the first place. An answer. Monk's purpose in life was to find the resolution.

This one had been rather hard to discern. They were little things, like Natalie avoiding his eyes, but leaning closer into his touch, when he dared touch her. When she had been distraught, she had collapsed in his arms, crying into his chest, despite his cold rejection of any human contact, and though, at first, he'd gone as stiff as a cadaver undergoing the chilling process of rigor mortis, he began to slowly melt into her warmth. It was like Trudy's warmth. Very soft, like downy fur. That had been one of his more prominent clues. One of the few.

His eyes returned to the phone. It had begun to convulse, as if it were seizing. A vibrating noise began to resonate throughout the silent room, and the chafing vibration of the phone's sleek, hard back against the glass was beginning to hack at his frayed nerves. He groped for it, desperate to end the torment.

"He-hello? I can't talk now, whoever…this…is. I'm waiting for someone to call. It's important. I'm sure you'll understand."

"Monk," came the wry voice of the Captain. "It's Stottlemeyer. It's about Natalie."

Monk began to fidget uneasily again when he glanced at the clock, even as the Captain began to diverge from the unconventional greetings into Natalie's condition. "Captain…Captain…" Monk stuttered.

"What, Monk…What is it that can be so much more important than Natalie, huh? Is there a spider on your wall?" He paused, and a certain edge of sarcasm began to creep back into his voice. "…Did someone spill milk on your carpet?"

"You called at 8:03….at 8:03. Couldn't you have waited until 8:05? 8:03…isn't…even." He spoke haltingly, staring at the clock, unblinking, unmoving, as if he'd forgotten how to breathe.

"Monk. This isn't the time to exercise your defects....something's happened. You need to come down here right away."

"No…no, no. No, that's not a good idea...." His voice began to trail off, heightening a little, hysteria returning. Suddenly, the room felt smaller. Suddenly, he felt like vomiting, and the thought catapulted him into a silent frenzy.

"That's not a good idea…"Stottlemeyer parroted. "Right. Well, would you like to explain to me why that's not a good idea, Monk?"

"My shoes. I haven't polished them yet. Everyone will be staring at my feet. It's just not right…what kind of citizen would I be, going out into public with scuffed shoes?"

_A normal one? _Stottlemeyer decided to keep that one to himself. He gave an impatient sigh, "any other _good _reasons why you shouldn't come see her?"

"My house is a mess. I haven't vacuumed since…yesterday. And the floors are filthy…_filthy_, Captain. What would you do if you had filthy floors?"

"I don't know. Hire a maid?"

Despite the Captain's reluctance to cooperate with his reasoning, Monk continued. "And the drapes...oh, Captain let me tell you about those drapes. They're...they're all..."

Stottlemeyer's frustrated sigh ended the pathetic attempt before it had even begun. "Monk, you're not a liar. We all know you're not a liar. Even Randy can lie better than you and..."The Captain gave a short, barking laugh. "Let's all face it. Randy is a horrible liar."

There was an awkward silence. But it was not the Captain that suffered the plaguing quiet, it was Monk. He balked at the idea of seeing Natalie, having to face her, having to face those pretty blue eyes of hers, and that sweetly innocent face. Because then he wouldn't be able to deny the fact, and not only that, but he wouldn't be able to refuse.

"Speaking of Randy...he'll be there in a few minutes to pick you up," Stottlemeyer announced, slowly, carefully. "You're going to see her today. You have to."

Monk slumped sulkily in his seat and groaned uneasily, and the phone fell from his unfurled palm.

This was going to be harder than he thought.

* * *

AN: Hey there guys. You might all remember me as _Garish Gashes. _Well, I'm back with _Answers _in honor of Monk's final season. I don't know how long it will be and I'm hoping I'll be able to finish it this time. If not well...we'll see.

Monk + Natalie = Love.

Disclaimer - I do not own Monk; it belongs to USA and its creators.


	2. Chapter I: Regret

It was the little details any other person would ignore that Monk would find. Perhaps they found him; no one could ever really pinpoint the origins of the clues he would excavate from even the coldest of crime scenes. The fine lines, the nearly microscopic prints, everything the Captain always missed would be as easy as looking through a window for Adrian Monk. He could even notice the smallest tinge of a scent on curtains, or notes of fumes on the air.

There were tell tale signs, manifestations of a newfound epiphany. The most renowned was the impish little grin. It would unfold like an opening book, weaving a story of a man whose sole comfort in life was the miniscule details, but no one could read it. It was too cryptic and winding a road for anyone to brave its flawlessly paved, not to mention perfectly dusted, labyrinths. Only Natalie dared. And even she, on occasion, found herself lost her way amidst the endless monotony of his symmetrical world.

Somehow, she always found her way back. She knew Monk needed her, that was evident that Monk could hardly function, even now, without his steadfastly loyal assistant. There were clues, however, that pointed warily toward another direction as well, as to why she stayed. It was a mystery.

It was just like any other day, and Monk was happy to oblige straightening out the wrinkles that skewed the image of his immaculate home. It was a particular Saturday which Natalie insisted on taking off, just for a few hours in the morning, so that she could run a couple of long overdue errands. Monk relented quietly, nodding his head a little forlornly, and the subject was dropped. He couldn't speak to her…not after what happened. Fragile seams had been ripped, boundaries crossed and Monk wasn't so sure he could ever see her the same way. And so he let her go without so much as a word.

He had been squinting at a small splotch on the wall, lips pursed with disgust, and not to mention the amount of concentration that he was devoting to this rather minute patch of grime. Then, there was a knock at the front door.

It was probable that it tugged at his attention so violently because of the fact that instead of two knocks, there were three. He squirmed a little, ticking his head slightly to the side and self-consciously straightening the smoothed collar of his shirt. Another three knocks echoed throughout the house, and Monk sprang into action, before the culprit could again hammer thrice on his door and drive him completely insane. How in the world was he to fix three and a half knocks? He began to notice a slight extension, as the visitor withdrew his knuckles, on the third blow. And, like always, he began to ponder the meanings of the uneven knock…_it's not impatience, or else he'd have used his voice already. Also, there's good rhythm…which means he must have some musical talent. Also, it sounds as if the middle knuckle is taking the brunt of the force…and I've only met one man….who makes a fist like that._

_It must be Randy…_

His frantic hands groped for the door, and it swung open to reveal the Captain and, just like he'd deduced, Randy Disher. He had been right, as usual…_Randy is standing just a fraction of an inch closer to the door, while the Captain's proximity and position is much too far away for him to knock without leaning forward. Not very…comfortable. Or practical._

_Does it really….matter? It always matters. Even small matters….matter._

"Randy," Monk managed to stutter out, closing his eyes, and his hand made a reprimanding gesture toward the Lieutenant. "Look. Don't….knock three and a half times."

"Why not? It's my signature knock," Randy retorted.

"Because…"Monk began, the desperation in his voice muffled by the door. "Randy…just…don't knock…three and a half times."

"I always knock three and a half times! And the Captain, he's economical…he only does it once. Saves time and energy for the real deal. The big time. The lowdown."

The Captain's face was pulled taut, strained from the consistent effort he was making not to slap the dim-witted Lieutenant upside his thick skull. "Randy, stop talking. That's an _order_."

"Lieutenant…knock one more time. Just one more."

"Why do you want me to knock again? You've already answered the door."

Stottlemeyer finally snapped, like a rubber band, a quick and easy strike. "Can we...forget the knock, and move on?"

Monk stepped aside to allow the two men to come inside, stuttering out a meek request for them to swipe their feet over the doormat a few times before they came inside. The Captain obliged him, but Randy had already gone inside before he could be stopped. Sometimes, Randy was like a tempest…his eagerness to please hardly left room for the capacity for patience. Monk lamented the freshly vacuumed carpets, his hands reaching out futilely before him, contemplating how many souls it would take for him to sell to buy back that one minute and stop Randy from soiling his…unsullied carpets.

Randy was ignorant to the plight of the detective as he flopped down on the couch and took out an interrogation form from the pocket of his jacket, holding his ink pen in his mouth as he did so. Monk cringed, attempting not to wonder exactly how many germs there were on that pen.

"Randy, what in the hell would you need that for?" Stottlemeyer gestured to the small pad, exasperated.

Randy and his antics were beginning to step a little too boldly on the Captain's last good nerve, and Monk knew it wouldn't be soon before he'd ask for a coffee, running his hands through the wisps of blonde, fading hair. It was systematic, when he was moody, and Monk had it down to a tee.

"Captain, Captain…there's always a case." Monk assured. "There is always a case. Everything happens for a reason."

"Monk, this is not the right time for you to suddenly see the light," Stottlemeyer inclined his head toward the man, who was staring forlornly at a scuff mark on Randy's shoes.

"Yes, sir," Randy nodded his head enthusiastically. "We heard the screeching tires, then the crash, then the hiss of the dying engine…"

"Randy!" Stottlemeyer snapped.

"If it was just an accident, then why did you…come to me? Now either it is a case, or someone important....was in that car." Monk touched his index finger to his lips thoughtfully, and the two men watched his eyes begin to swim and brim over with realization. It was an epiphany Monk had feared to have, one that he wished he could take back, even if it meant sacrificing the chance to have his carpets free of Randy Disher's thoughtless footprints.

"It's..Natalie. Nat-Natalie, isn't it? That's- why you're here. No one's more…important than Natalie…"

It was merely a nuance, such a fine detail that Monk had nearly missed it, but just in time he caught sight of Randy's coat wrinkling, a sign of movement, or more particularly, an uncomfortable fidget. Out of the corner of his eye, Monk saw the Captain begin to tense as well; he remembered what happened to Monk after the earthquake, when Sharona was still around…the Rutherford case. He'd spoken gibberish for an hour. Both cops were afraid to even attempt to anticipate how Monk would react if he thought Natalie, his beloved assistant, was dead.

Randy held out his hands defensively, as if bracing himself for impact, when Monk's face began to wilt, like the petals of a flower stomped beneath a muddy pair of shoes.

"Monk, she's not dead."

Monk collapsed into his loveseat, his face completely blank, and Stottlemeyer sunk down next to him, putting an encouraging hand on the man's shoulder. He shrunk away from the intrusive gesticulation and scooted nervously away.

Randy scoffed dryly, looking down at his now useless interrogation sheet. "She might as well be, though."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Monk started, tossing Randy a fearful glance.

"Lieutenant, shut up and go start the car!"

"But sir-"

"_Now_!"

Randy was quick to flee the scene, bustling out the room and leaving a wake of ruffled air behind him. Monk's tics began to come more frequently, his entire face enveloped in a deep, troubled pallor.

"Monk, Monk…she's fine. She's alright. She'll be okay. She's in intensive care right now, and they've already said that she's going to be just fine, okay?"

"It's all my fault…all my…"

Monk listlessly patted his chest as he realized who was to blame for Natalie's condition. The logical fraction of his mind would hardly exempt him from the guilt he knew he rightfully deserved…if only…if only he hadn't said anything. If only that confession had never been made…

Before he knew what was happening, he found himself in the kitchen, snatching a bag from beneath the methodically organized sink with a perfect array of packaged sponges. He pried it open with trembling fingers, tore open one of the sponges and turned on the tap where he ran the small square beneath the surging water from the faucet. Stottlemeyer seemed to be stalling behind him, even as Monk commenced a cleaning binge right there in front of him. It made him feel paranoid, like the entire world was watching him with gloating, prying eyes.

"Alright, Monk. Clean enough. Let's go."

The Captain took a fistful of Monk's meticulously starched shirt and in his temperamental state, had no qualms about dragging the man all the way to the waiting car.

* * *

Monk was the first of the trio to enter the hospital. His walk was brisk, a sure sign of his distress and inevitable worry for Natalie, but remained close to the wall, where he counted and tapped each lamp that he encountered on the way to the receptionist's desk. Stottlemeyer lolled languidly behind, and Randy, like an obedient, faithful dog, remained a step or two behind his Captain's mindlessly paced gait.

In his excitement of locating the receptionist's desk, Monk burst forward in a sort of haphazard skip. "Nurse!" He stammered, but recollected the last lamp he'd missed in his carelessness, and retraced his steps awkwardly to tap it. The receptionist caught sight of the man's odd behavior and shook her head, pursuing her lips thoughtfully for a moment, and then returned to her phone call.

"Nurse, nurse…we have…an emergency!" Monk exclaimed, pausing to straighten the off-center lamp that leaned its long, graceful neck over the gleaming countertop. He then noticed the crooked stapler, and then the pot of flowers, all the blossoms having stems with different numbers of leaves. But before he could remove the offending, superfluous leaves, the nurse smacked his hands away, forced to put her call on hold.

"What do you think you're doing, Mister?" She shooed Monk's insistent hands away.

"You'll thank me later. Trust me. A clean desk is a _happy_ desk." Monk replied.

By now, most of the waiting room's occupants were staring with doubtful quirks lining their brows, some leaning into their neighbor's ear to inquire after the sudden appearance of the madman. Stottlemeyer grimaced, sighing heavily. "Oh dear…"He whispered under his breath.

"Actually, it looks more like a moose to me," Randy retorted as he stared at the painting he'd _thought_ his boss had been referring to, the one Monk had only just tapped in his counting spree moments before. Unluckily for the Captain, he'd caught Randy's thought, but decided against reacting and focusing on keeping Monk's sanity intact for Natalie's sake, if not for his own.

Monk lifted and rolled his shoulder a little, grimacing as he endeavored to constrain his impulsive instinct to rearrange the disordered miscellany on the receptionist's desk. He stared at it, longingly, but remembered his purpose. "You see, ma'am, my assistant is here. She shouldn't be here. She's got to get back to work at twelve, like she said. She's late. She's late! Punctuality is very…_important_ to me."

He reached out, fingers extending toward the computer monitor, which was shifted only a centimeter off kilter.

Stottlemeyer caught up to the detective and grabbed his hands, shoving them forcefully back to his side. He stared long and hard at Monk, a wordless warning, and then proceeded to smile warmly at the receptionist, who looked as if she were about to be sick. Monk wandered off toward a plaque on the wall where pictures of the head of department doctors were situated, noticing that one of them had a smudged fingerprint lit up in the beam of the reflecting, fluorescent lights whirring overhead. He leaned in and wiped the blotch away until not even a speck of evidence remained, then moved to the one next to it, finding something wrong with its current state as well.

Randy watched from his carefully marked position close by, where Stottlemeyer had told him to wait, his eyes narrowed vigilantly, as if he expected Monk to suddenly disappear into thin air or melt beneath the pressure of his distress. Monk never did well with stress. He never acclimated to its gravitational pull.

"Look, forgive my friend. He's not good with worrying." Stottlemeyer laughed, tossing a nonchalant gesture toward Monk, who was now dusting off the entire array of photos mounted on the white-washed, plaster walls.

The nurse scoffed. "You could say that again."

"I'd rather not," Stottlemeyer rejoined wryly. "He needs to see his assistant. A Natalie Teeger. I'm sure she's in the system by now. She's been here about an hour and a half. I sent her off in an ambulance myself."

She heaved a resigned sigh and began typing into the computer, and Stottlemeyer watched closely if she decided to balk at any given moment. "Natalie Teeger. She's just been discharged from intensive care. You should find her in room 527, second floor. A doctor will be in there to speak with you about her condition in about, oh, I'll say fifteen minutes."

"Thank you very much, madam, and you have a nice day," said Stottlemeyer as he tapped the desk victoriously, and the nurse waved him off, dismissing him from her as she attempted to re-disorganize her tidied desk. "C'mon, Monk. There's somebody that would really like to see you."

"Who's that?" Monk groaned miserably, eyes crinkled with worry as he tried, futilely, to withdraw his elbow from the Captain's iron grip. Randy was in pursuit of the fast-walking pair, and this time paced himself a few steps ahead of the Captain, punching the upper button for the elevator.

"What room number, Captain?" Randy asked, as he waited for the elevator shaft to settle into place. A curt ringing emitted from the elevator, and the doors slid open.

"527."

"527…527…that's an odd number. Odd…number." Monk stuttered, utterly dismayed. "Can't we go to 530?"

"That would defeat the purpose of visiting Natalie…who is in room _527_."

"You…you never know…" Monk shook his head. "The guy…or…person in 530 might be really great. And then we can't say we didn't try, right?"

The Captain paused as he stared blankly at the detective. "Monk, what the _hell_ are you talking about?"

He ran a hand over his face, moaning listlessly. "I have no idea…just wake me up when we get there."

A crowd of people met their line of vision as Stottlemeyer decided to let it go, and the sight of them crunched together inside of the small space made Monk's stomach churn.

"Next one." Monk demanded, turning away desperately to rid his poor eyes of the sight of such disorder and lack of space. The people that had been in the elevator all stared at him with wide, questioning eyes as the doors closed shut.

Before long, the elevator dinged again, and the doors opened to reveal an empty compartment. Stottlemeyer shoved Monk into the small space, and Randy pressed the button for the fifth floor. Monk's nostrils flared, and he scrunched his nose, smelling a strong tang of metal; he guessed it was nickel, but it could have been any mixture of metals.

"Five. I hate that number. It is the number from Hell. A…it's a demon number, Captain…" Monk muttered. "You have to do something about that number."

"Monk, _shut up_." he ordered, and then lead the rambling man into the designated room. Five twenty-seven, in bold, black-inked letters, was scrawled neatly across a blue plaque next to the doorway.

And there was Natalie. She was the first thing noticeable about the room, a chamber absolutely drenched in parched white and shades of sickly-tinted blues and grays. An empty vase was set upon the peeling white dressed beside her bed, and the sheets were pressed, newly laundered, from the looks of it. Natalie was tucked beneath the blank coverlet, delicate body looking broken, like shards of porcelain scattered across the floor. She was badly bruised and patched up, a battered ragdoll, and even had a bandage wrapped around her flaxen head. Her eyes were closed, restful, but Monk noticed that every so often, they'd flinch, and he was sure she was just dozing, perhaps closer to the surface of consciousness than she appeared.

"Wipe." Monk snapped his fingers impatiently. But when not even a scuffle of movement was made, he repeated his insistent command. "Wipe." He repeated. He looked over at the two men, Randy's mouth hanging open, baffled as usual by the detective's complete lack of social grace. The Captain peered at him as if he hoped, sincerely, that Monk was joking.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to stop at the QuickMart on the way here," he replied cynically. "Perhaps you'll just have to make do with the ones you _have stuffed into your pocket_." Stottlemeyer stepped forward and angrily seized the package of cleaning wipes from Monk's breast pocket, waving them in front of his eyes.

The dazed man blinked rapidly for a moment, groping for composure but resigned from the bout of confusion and broke open the package, taking out two wipes. He then stepped forward and proceeded to swab the droplets of blood that had been left on Natalie's bruised arms and face, softly, at first, as to not wake her from her light doze.

But then he began to scrub at a particularly stubborn bloodstain, and Natalie's eyes opened, slowly at first, lashes grazing her scathed cheek. She stared, puzzled, at Monk for a moment, eyes averting from him to his hands as they wiped her clean of all traces of blood.

"Who…who…are you?" Natalie asked. Her words were halting, uncertain, so unlike the usual resolved manner of her character. Monk chuckled, shaking his head a little as he lifted her limp arm to brush off a few drops from her elbow.

"That's funny, Natalie. Good joke…good joke. I'm the punch line, I get it." His eyes crinkled as he laughed. He awkwardly stepped forward and jabbed her in the shoulder, stepping quickly back to avoid stepping on a crack in the tile.

But Natalie wasn't laughing. Monk became terribly disgruntled when he realized the bloodstains on Natalie's coverlet, expressing his repulsion with a cry of vexation.

"Excuse me, sir..I-I don't know who you…are." She removed her arm from the man's grasp, and he transfixed his warm, brown eyes directly on her. "How do you..know my name?"

He paused in his scouring frenzy, dropping his cleaning wipe; it made a soft _plop _as it collided with the cold, hard tile floor. His gaze trailed slowly over Natalie until it reached her face, hoping to find a smile to match her quip, but discovering nothing in her pretty features. Her expression remained cautious…._stony_ even.

"Natalie…c'mon you know me. Y'know…your boss. Adrian…Monk" He began to laugh awkwardly again, but behind the forced mirth there was complete confusion.

Stottlemeyer, just as dumbfounded as Monk, inched toward the girl.

"Natalie, you don't know who this is?" He awaited her response, which was a slow shake of her head. "Do you know who I am?" He asked. Again, she shook her head.

"Natalie! Nat-Natalie…this isn't a game." He wagged his finger at her, but it faltered as she looked at him with fearful eyes, eyes that might be matched to that of a stranger. "Natalie, please. Natalie…"He rushed forward, taking her hand into his. He never did that….ever.

"Get your hands off me!" She shrieked, attempting to pry her hand out of his. "Get off me!"

"Hey! What's going on in here?"

Monk's gaze traveled to the doorway, where a doctor in a starched white coat stood in the doorway, staring at the battling pair. Natalie was still trying to wrench her hand from Monk's, who was determined to keep his grip tight around her fragile, sore little fingers.

"Well, we're not sure doc…why don't you tell us?" Stottlemeyer gestured to Natalie. "She seems to have forgotten Monk here and trust me…it is very, very _hard_ to forget the likes of him."

The detective stared helplessly at the woman…_they always leave. One way or another, they never stay. I should have known. _He flinched as the self-deprecating thought crossed his mind.

The doctor, pristine in his white coat and khaki slacks (something that, if Monk had been in his right mind, he would have appreciated very much), looked briefly at each of the men standing in the room, meeting each worried gaze. "She's suffered severe head trauma from the crash. Not only does she have a concussion but…she's lost some of her memory."

"What…what are you saying doctor?" Monk asked.

He paused only a moment, then glanced fleetingly at Natalie. "She has retrograde amnesia," he said. "Natalie Teeger has no idea who any of you are."

* * *

AN: Alright, well...so begins this little story. It should be short, about six chapters from what I've planned. Each chapter I'll unveil little pieces of the incident to you...the one that Monk claims to regret so adamantly. Just a note - the next chapter will have a different writing style. I wrote this chapter back in February.

Anyway, thanks to everyone who provided feedback! I appreciate it so much. :)

Disclaimer - I don't own Monk, Stottlemeyer, Randy or Natalie. They all belong to USA and Andy Breckman.


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